The Therapist
by AeroterynBerceau
Summary: Sherlock has never been good about getting out his feelings. Ever. (Hence the skull talking and the incessant silences.) But Sherlock is talking now...to a therapist. And it's about John. :) JOHNLOCK! Read it, love it, review it!


**Hey y'all, this is a little dum ditty do da I threw together. I promise it will get better. If you don't like JohnLock, you better turn back now and run crying. **

**I love you like I love pie.**

**(In moderation.) :D**

**XXXXXXXRoraXXXXXX**

"What's your name?"

The woman in front of me had coffee and a donut for breakfast. She rarely ever eats out, but she was in a rush. Her lineage is Caucasian, probably German. Its rather hard to tell. No accent I can detect. Her hair is in a messy bun, which is strange considering her perception of details. 35, two children. She's had marriage issues these past couple of years. She's losing the divorce battle. She likes cats and Mozart. She'd probably like a quiet life if she could find one. She's a simple, normal human being.

She calls herself a therapist.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes."

"No. Your full name."

I sigh in the back of my throat, but remember John's warning. 'It won't help unless you actually do as she asks.'

I wish it had never gotten so out of hand.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

"And how do you suppose you got that name?"

I look down at my nails. One is torn. Clearly I haven't been in much of a mood for personal hygiene lately: what, with my life spinning out of control. "I haven't the faintest."

She makes a face and a note on the clipboard. 'Uses carelessness to avoid answering questions.'

"It's not carelessness. I only wonder my name's relevance to the topic at hand."

Her hands fold in her lap, over the writing pad. It's a look of absolute pity she gives me: full of something I doubt I'll every truly understand. Something sentimental.

"Mr. Holmes." Her voice is sweet and sickening. "All of the exercises we engage in here will eventually help you get over your fears. All I ask is that you answer the questions."

With one mascaraed eye back on the notes, she doesn't wait for me to agree.

"You have a history of self harm."

I instinctively tighten for a moment. "Yes."

"Drug use."

"Yes."

The question is legitimately curious. "What sorts?"

"Cocaine, mostly. Street crack. I've used methamphetamine only once: horrible experience."

"And why do you think you use these drugs?"

I ponder for a moment. If I must respond honestly, I'd say that it only ever happened when I was away from John or afraid of him. John was like a lifeboat of calm. His smile, his laugh. My eyes become unfocused as I think of my friend.

My love.

"No idea."

She raises an eyebrow. "Mr. Holmes."

Damn. "They help me focus."

"Focus on what, Mr. Holmes?"

Her eyes are trained on mine. It's very uncomfortable, but she's a large presence. Somehow, I bite my tongue and bide my time. "Cases."

"Ah yes." The woman scribbles something else in her little book, her pen bobbing dramatically. No doubt she believes she's cracked my issues already. "Cases. How is it that a man with such a furious use of drugs consults with Scotland Yard?"

To be utterly honest, I'm not sure. It's most likely because I'm brilliant, and possibly the only true genius I may ever find, aside from my brother. Something inside of me, however, feels a bit ill admitting it. John would never approve.

"They require my talents."

"Your deductions?"

Excellent. She knows me. "Yes. Have you read the blog?"

It's a flair of the wrists. "Barely. You wrote a post about tobacco ash that was absolutely-"

"-riveting?"

"...awful. Could barely make it through the first ten."

I'm disappointed. I flicker my eyes into the opposite direction. "Well. It's not your fault if your brain is too vacant to appreciate fine information."

She writes something. A silence ensues. A long one. I take a moment to look around the room: a barely furnished attic. But with her people skills, I can understand the cheap accommodations. To think that John RECOMMENDED her.

"How does John Watson fit into all of this?"

She peers at me with a ferocious gaze, and I have to say that I'm daunted. Mostly because I never spoke about him. "How do you-"

"He's a patient of mine. That's all I can say." She sits back, her arms slumped around the side of the chair. "He talks an awful lot about you."

For a moment, my heart beats excitedly. Then a hollow feeling replaces it. 'Who else has John to talk about?'

"It's been brought up that you should be evaluated."

Not news. "I'm sure."

"That you're unfocused. Bonkers."

"Of course."

"You believe you're mad?"

She leans in very close: so close that I can see the stretch marks on her chest, with the low top she wears. Sudden breast growth: either pregnancy or birth control. I'm more inclined to believe the latter, as there's no other markers of pregnancy. Birth control means that she's been out of the house, engaging sexually with men other than her husband. Hence the divorce.

"Not Mad... Just a little observant."

"Observant... You like to believe you see more of the world than the rest of the human race. You are, as I understand it, under the impression that you are a sociopath?"

Of course it was John. "High functioning, Thank you. And yes." My gaze slips to the many notes she's taken. "I most certainly am a sociopath."

She sizes me up. One firm sweep of her notes, and one firm sweep of my face. She hones in on my eyes.

"How can that be, when I don't see a trace of antisocial behavior around you?"

I blank.

I admit, it takes me by surprise. In my mind, I'm as antisocial as anyone. But her unbroken eye contact and body language tell me the same thing. She isn't lying.

She believes it.

Can I possibly not be antisocial?

"Are you alright?"

I blink, and my heart feels heavy. What am I without my title? "High functioning sociopath". It's as much a part of me as jumpers are apart of John.

Could it be a lie I've created?

"Mr. Holmes. Are you alright?" She repeats. I nod a little, barely perceptible.

Bullocks.

"Mr. Holmes, if you're not ready for this, we can resche-"

"-I have to be sociopathic." My voice is a whisper. "There's no other explanation."

The woman -my therapist- gives me a long, long look. It seems to stretch eons. More than eons...decades. She peers into some deep cavern inside myself that I never recognized I had. She sees me for someone beyond the facade I give every day. In an odd way, she's like Mary, or John. She isn't listening to my bullock.

Maybe this is why therapists work.

"If I'm not a sociopath..."

"Yes?"

"...what can I be?"

It's obvious she doesn't understand the question. "Mr. Holmes?"

"I am..." My voice catches. "I am a detective. I see the world differently than most. I see..." What do I see? "...I see words, numbers, pictures. I have an entire palace dedicated to my mind. Rooms filled with useless information."

I peer at her a moment, wondering if she'll cut in. She doesn't.

"Sometimes...in my mind palace, I go over faces. I find humans that have importance...murders, victims, officers and such. I characterize them. I keep them there, where I can only lose them If I delete them. And somehow..." I feel my voice get quieter, slower as I continue. "And somehow I manage to hold onto things I wish would leave. I can only delete useless information. I can't delete information I hate."

"And what do you hate?"

I'm floundering. It's uncomfortable. I'm absolutely uncomfortable. She looks at me like I'm a child, telling a mad story. It doesn't even irritate me. It bothers me instead.

I want to hide.

Instead, I speak.

"I'm in love with John Watson."

It's almost indistinguishable. Almost. Her eyebrow travels half a millimeter up. It's enough to tell me that I've surprised her. I've really hit the head of the nail.

"In love?"

I nod firmly. "I'm utterly captivated by his very presence, and I can no longer function independently."

She actually puts down the clipboard, and retracts her hands to her lap. Her eyes are bright. "This is why you came here today. This is the real reason."

A nod.

"Ha! And I thought it was because of drug addiction... Oh lord. You want advice?"

"I want counseling."

"Too bad." There's a full grin on her face, now. It makes her features less daunting... rather pretty. "You're getting advice."

Oh well. "Mm?"

"John Watson is under the impression that he isn't gay. That's a bridge you'll have to cross."

My throat grows tight instantaneously. "Impression? So you believe he is?"

"I'm not at liberty to say." But her body language, the twitchy hands, dilated pupils and set jaw say yes. I'm suddenly interested.

"Go on."

She licks her lips a little. "You need to convince him that he's gay. Any way possible. He'll push you away at first, I'm sure. But...if you do it right..."

I feel a sudden burst of appreciation for this woman, even living in sin.

I smile at her, and stand. "For a serial adulterer who loves cats, you do seem to be knowledgable. I'm rather pleased I came."

I pick up my scarf, wrap it around, throw on my coat, brush out my hair with my fingertips, and exit.

She's silent as I leave, a look of stun still on her pale face.


End file.
